


All For One

by pudupudu



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, I know nothing about boxing, there be some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1512374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pudupudu/pseuds/pudupudu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt given to me for a fic exchange: After Morse's Trove incident Strange gets worried about his seeming complete lack of ability to defend himself. Cue him attempting to teach Morse self defence moves, how to punch, etc. Bonus points if Jakes notices and throws in some tips too. Then while he's out on a case with Thursday Morse gets a chance to put it into action and Thurs is like WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN but also quite pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All For One

**Author's Note:**

> If you want me to write something for you and write a Thursday fic in return, head here: http://thepudupudu.tumblr.com/post/83607134851/endeavour-fic-exchange-my-anything-for-your-thursday
> 
> This story is set during / just after 'Trove' with knowledge of the events of the episode presumed. Some references to 'Neverland', though if you haven't seen it they're unlikely to mean anything to you! 
> 
> Also a brief mention of a character who will later appear in Inspector Morse- see if you can spot him.

Morse needed to tie his shoelace. He knew he had to, had done for hours, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do anything about it. It trailed behind him like a stray cat, increasingly sluggish as it became weighed down with water and mud. Soon Thursday would comment- he must already have noticed- and then Morse would be duty bound to tie it (“hardly professional looking, that”) and then his cover would be blown. “I’m afraid it’s a little tricky, Sir,” he could imagine his ears burning with shame at the confession, “my ribs are a little bruised” (because I’m _weak_ and _useless_ and clearly unable to hack being a _proper_ policeman- in the real world, what good are brains against brawn?)

There’s almost a sigh of relief when he manages to get back to the office with shoe still loose. Inspector Thursday returns to his office to have another look through the case files and make a few phone calls, and Morse slumps into his chair, glad that Jakes isn’t around to rag on him on this occasion. He might just have had to punch him. He snorts to himself at that thought (as if _that_ would have ended well for him), and begins summoning the energy needed to bend over.   _It’s just a shoelace, Endeavour. You’re a disgrace to your name_. For an entirely fathomable reason, at points of self-loathing his internal monologue always adopted his father’s voice. Full understanding of why this was the case, however, did not make the young man hate it less.

Eventually- after much tutting from his father’s voice- he managed to accomplish the endeavour (a wry lip quirk, there). So much concentration did it take, however, that he completely failed to notice that he was no longer alone until the integral yet nameless human sense for wrongness alerted him to the fact he was being watched- _by the pricking of my thumbs_ … Upon raising his head, however, Morse realised that it wasn’t something ‘wicked’ that this way came, but rather something Strange. PC Strange, to be precise, who was eying him silently with something of a cross between curiosity and concern. Wanting neither of these emotions directed towards him, Morse sat up quickly- too quickly.

“Steady on there, Matey.” Strange was at his side now, resting a hand on his shoulder, _definitely concerned_. Morse took a breath and regained his equilibrium, batting away Strange’s hand with mumbled reassurances that he’s absolutely fine. “You took a right pounding” is the Strange’s forthright assessment. Pride makes him want to snap back with a glib remark about his detecting skills- _no flies on you, Constable_ \- but he stops himself, imagining his wounded expression. Strange is one of the few people he could actual classify as ‘friends’ and he has no desire to be cruel when faced with kindness. Still, he hadn’t replied. “Can I get you anything?” Strange was clearly uncomfortable with the silence, “tea?”

“No, no, I’m fine, thanks all the same,” a weak smile that nevertheless seems to dissipate some of Strange’s anxiety. The man really did wear his thoughts on his face, which was probably one of the reasons he was so frequently lauded for being such a ‘comforting presence in the community.’ He had no poker face, though, which Morse couldn’t help but feel might prove a disadvantage. “All in the line of duty, and all,” he allowed himself a small wince. All he really wanted was to go home, lie down and bury himself in a book as he so often had before… but there was so much still to do, and a voice that sounded like Thursday’s- he couldn’t quite pinpoint the moment he too entered his head- kept reminding him of the importance of good practice.

"You need to learn to look out for yourself,” Strange stated plainly, “the old man won’t always be around to give ‘em a seeing to”- _word travels fast_. Though he could hear the sense in Strange’s words, wounded and stubborn vanity kept him stonily silent. A slight pause. “And, y’know, one day you might just have to do something to back ‘im up instead…” That did the trick; _advantage, Strange_. “Listen,” Strange pulled up a chair and took a seat opposite Morse, elbows on knees, hands expressing themselves as articulately as his features, “some of the lads, we do a bit of boxing. Nothing too rough, just to keep an eye in… Why don’t you join us? It’s a couple’ve times a week and then a pint afterwards. Great fun when you get into it.”

Morse’s expression suggested that ‘fun’ was the last adjective he could imagine using to describe such an activity, but all the same he found himself with no option but to nod. “Give me the details, I’ll be there.”

 **************************************** 

And there he had been. The first session was a disaster, but not unmitigated. Winded and bloody lipped, crouching, gasping on a mat, he swore to himself _never again_ , but then a constable- Bottomley, he had introduced himself as- offered him his hand (and not for a secret handshake, though the man was clearly one of _those_ ). Blatant Masonic leanings aside, Morse had felt heartened by the offer and allowed his fellow officer to help him to his feet. Rowntree- the Sergeant he had been pitted against in this losing battle- removed his gum shield and came over to shake his hand “good match, especially for your first. You’re quick on your feet, just need to keep the concentration,” he grinned good naturedly “we’ll make a boxer of you yet.”

What followed astonished the young man: more comments praising elements of his technique; advice on how he might improve; gentle jibes about how he’d better improve quickly, because if he came in with too many bruises they’d all get it from the gov’. There was no malice, just pats on the back- this was _comradery_. Morse had never been much of a joiner; his student days had fostered in him an inherent mistrust of societies, of their rituals and cliques. Though he was passionate about music, he had left more choirs than he cared to recall, yet here he was, part of a fraternity of boxing policemen of all things. He accompanied them to the pub, they bought him drinks and didn’t expect rounds from the new boy in return.

A glass smashed behind the bar. He didn’t flinch, but joined the bawdy cheer.

  ****************************************  

Several sessions later, Morse was considerably more adept. His preference at first had been to fight against Strange, but before long the other men were onto him. Strange, as he had noted long ago, was an open book to a deductive mind and in the ring, Morse was quick to learn his tells. Poor, good-hearted Jim was exhausted and awed after a fifth consecutive defeat by the time Rowntree- unelected but unanimously acknowledged leader of their merry band of demi-savages- pulled him aside for a chat. “You didn’t look at his hands once,” Morse shrugged, “you’re _reading_ him. It’s a good skill to have, granted, but you need to work on the muscle as well as that massive organ of yours,” a schoolboy smirk from both of them, even Morse couldn’t resist the innuendo. 

“Up against me again, this time. We’ll find you another regular sparring partner next session.” Morse lost against Rowntree again, but by a much smaller margin; he left the pub aching, but satisfied and he made small talk with Monica in the hallway with far more self-confidence than was his wont. His posture was upright, his gesticulations expansive, newly fledged muscles fluttering against tight cotton; _I am a man. Now, at last, I am a man_. Monica left him with a smile and a chaste peck on the cheek, his new found assurance buoying her in turn. She promised to see him again tomorrow and Morse left her with his hopes for her pleasant sleep. His own repose was long and restful, unfettered by nightmares for the first time in months.

Three days later he felt on a similar high as he approached the centre where their training was held; his mood plummeted faster than Icarus when he came face to face with his new opponent. _Jakes. Of all people. Why did it have to be Jakes?_ When the shock had passed and they were stood toe to toe in the ring, shaking hands on Rowntree’s instruction, the mood quickly changed; Morse took one look at Jakes’s expression of smug expectation and knew that there was no one on earth he would rather be punching. Jakes’s blows, like his suits, were neat and measured. He expended no more effort than necessary while Morse went at him with all the passion of a Romantic poet on an opium binge. He was exhausted and erratic but awareness of this didn’t stop him; one more fitful hook from him and he was floored by a calculated uppercut.

Gasping on the mat, Morse seethed at himself and at Jakes, though mostly the former. Self-pity and loathing made him unsporting, and he swiped away his the hand his opponent offered him. He stalked home without saying goodbye, barely hearing the well-meaning questions that followed him. His leg ached all night.

  **************************************** 

The next day at work, Morse was barely civil. Inspector Thursday noticed, but refrained from comment, merely raising an eyebrow before heading for his office. Jakes cornered him before lunch “listen, about last night… you can’t take it personally. The boxing. The moment you do that, you’re out. You were angry, I get that, but if you lose it like that with some bastard in an alley you won’t have a nice soft landing and a bloke blowing a whistle.” Morse eyed him suspiciously, wondering why he suddenly seems to care about his alleyway safety; Jakes sees the look and shrugs, looking a little uncomfortable. “We don’t see eye to eye, but in the job we have to look out for each other, there ain’t no one else who will. All for one…” he froze, unconsciously worrying his lip between his teeth.

“...and one for all,” Morse finished for him. Jakes responded with a staccato nod. Sensing that the situation was getting dangerously close to emotional, both men cleared their throats awkwardly. “So… Friday… rematch? I won’t lose my head this time. Not that your punches are hard enough for that.” Jakes smirked in response to that, but there was something lacking and not knowing the cause made Morse uncomfortable: _something rotten in the county of Oxfordshire_. If only Jakes were as easy to read as Strange, but then, Morse supposed, Rowntree wouldn’t have paired them together. “Next time, you won’t have it so easy.” And next time he didn’t; Morse took the match.

 **************************************** 

It happened not in an alleyway as Jakes had predicted, but by the canal. And this time it wasn’t himself in the firing line. A grizzly case was coming to a head; a London prostitution racket which essentially amounted to slavery had moved to Oxford. They had a lead that the men involved- two of them, they had thought- were living in a houseboat near Jericho and Thursday had instructed Morse to meet him at the canal as soon as he had completed some final inquiries. These same inquiries had led him to conclude that there were at least six men involved, rather than two, and he had rushed to the scene as quickly as he could. He wasn’t quite quick enough, however, and he arrived to a scene from a film set.

Momentarily shocked into stillness, Morse observed for a moment as if the events unfurling before him were indeed fictitious. Though he had easily deduced that his mentor was handy with his fists, he had never actually witnessed him using them; watching him now, as he fought six men single-handed, it all seemed almost gladiatorial. _Deos fortioribus adesse_. Except this wasn’t a Romantic vision of strength, but a painfully human one; the gods might have favoured strength, but strength comes in numbers and those were not on Thursday’s side. Hampered by the blows he’d already taken and a lingering summer cold he’d been unable to shake- “sign of the times. I’m getting old”- the Inspector was visibly flagging by the time Morse instructed his legs to run.

Four men were down- one unconscious, two retreating and the fourth in the canal itself- by the time the ring leader landed the blow that sent Thursday reeling. His head met with the side of the boat with a stomach-turning thud. “Sir!” Morse yelled to the unresponsive man, alerting the two men still standing- bloodied and incensed- to his presence. Fortunately, he was still far enough away at this point to centre himself, testing the ground underfoot as criminals- Drummond and Jacobs, he presumed- hurtled towards him. Responding to questioning later that evening, Morse was ashamed to have to resort to cliche; what followed truly was a blur. It all happened so quickly that at moments he felt like he wasn’t truly present at the scene at all.

What he did know, however, was that for the first time in his life he had trusted the instincts of his body over those of his mind. At first he had tried to read them as he would Strange, but he quickly realised that this tactic would only work with a challenge from someone he had known for considerably more than a few seconds. From there, he took a breath, softened his stance, and let his training take over. Block, hook, dodge, duck. Though these were not men playing by the rules, Morse nevertheless had an upper hand over the both of them by having arrived, fresh, after a considerable fight had already taken place. He let his limbs remember what his fights with Jakes and Rowntree had taught him, and before his brain had time to process the events that had unfolded, both men were down and under arrest.

By the time he jogged his way to Thursday, the Inspector was already in the process of rising unsteadily to his feet. Once upright, he swayed once, precariously, and Morse was at his side in an instant to right him again “alright, Sir?”

Thursday gave him a wry look before grimacing. “Mustn’t grumble,” he looked around, blearily, at the scene around him. “How did you…” he was slightly agog, realising the part that Morse had played. “Nevermind, that’s a story that deserves a clear headed audience, and a pint or four. Honestly, Morse, I thought I was done for for a moment there. One thing… where did you learn to fight like that?”

“17th century France, Sir.” Attempting to process this made Thursday look distinctly queasy, and Morse took pity. “I’ll explain later in the pub. Let’s get you home. I don’t expect to see you at work tomorrow, alright?” The older man smiled at having his words echoed back to him- how things had changed since that day in London!- and he allowed Morse to escort him away as the constabulary finally arrived.

FINI


End file.
